


i had a dream (which was not a dream at all)

by lutes_and_dandelions



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Fluff, Halloween, Happy Ending, Love Confessions, M/M, Post Blood and Wine, Saovine Fic, Spooky, Wild Hunt Spoilers, action and adventure, halloween fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:34:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27305659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lutes_and_dandelions/pseuds/lutes_and_dandelions
Summary: On Saovine morning, Emhyr is given a report detailing strange activity in the bogland an hours ride from Nilfgaard City. Not wanting to alert his subjects, Emhyr asks Geralt to investigate for him. Even after decades as a witcher, nothing could have prepared Geralt for the darkness he meets and all that it shows him.
Relationships: Emhyr var Emreis/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 19
Kudos: 119
Collections: Sordid Saovine - The Witcher Halloween Event





	i had a dream (which was not a dream at all)

Weak sunlight pressed against Geralt’s closed eyes. He returned to consciousness with a faint groan, shifting under the covers, reaching out a hand for Emhyr. Tracing his fingertips up the soft skin of Emhyr’s side when he found his lover’s body in the ridiculously large bed. 

“Your Majesty,” Mererid said from over by the windows. Another set of curtains was pulled open. “Breakfast will be delivered at the usual time with the morning reports.” The final set of curtains were opened, Geralt frowned against the light, a few moments later the door closed softly behind Emhyr’s chamberlain and they were alone. He still wished he’d been in the room when Emhyr had requested being woken half an hour earlier each morning. Geralt knew Mererid wouldn’t have questioned it, but surely he would have guessed why and he’d have loved to have seen the chamberlain’s face.

“Good morning,” Emhyr murmured, reaching out for Geralt in return. 

He went willingly into Emhyr’s arms, as he had every morning for quite some time. Geralt had only planned to stay a week, spend Midsummer in the city, see Ciri, and then go back to Corvo Bianco but four months later and he was yet to leave. They’d been more than a little drunk when they’d fallen into bed together, years of tension finally being unleashed in the form of incredible sex. Geralt did not regret a second of it. However, even he wasn’t aware of when they’d stopped fucking and started making love, that layer of their relationship coming about so slowly Geralt had barely noticed it. 

Before Geralt knew it he was eating all of his meals with Emhyr, knew how the man took his tea, could pick out his favourites from the bookcase in his office and understood why they were Emhyr’s favourites. In return, Emhyr confided in him, told him of what he really thought of his courtiers and nobles, and had even begun to ask for his insights for matters of state. It was a heady feeling, that Emhyr var Emreis, Emperor of the North and South, trusted him. Geralt was no fool, he understood his own feelings, he knew what love felt like and what he felt for Emhyr was certainly that. The only problem was that he didn’t know if his feelings were returned.

Ciri found the whole thing hilarious, Geralt paid her teasing not mind, just enjoying being able to spend so much time with her. Her schedule was hectic but everyday she made time for him, even if it was just a quick five minute catch up over a cup of tea. At least once a week the three of them had dinner together. It was the highlight of his week. The normality of it, the domesticity, it was something he’d always wanted but been scared to dream of having.

Geralt was still half asleep when he felt Emhyr’s lips against his shoulder, by the time they reached his own mouth he’d woken up enough to wrap his own arms around his lover. Emhyr’s touch still thrilled Geralt and he was very sure he’d never tire of it. They didn’t always make love in the mornings, sometimes they would just kiss and enjoy holding it each, talking, before the trials and tribulations of the day could work tension back into Emhyr’s shoulders and jaw. 

Half an hour later they exited Emhyr’s bedroom, which was slowly starting to feel like their bedroom, wearing soft dressing gowns, relaxed and content. Their breakfast was waiting on the dining room table, the dishes covered to keep the food warm. The black and yellow box in which Emhyr received his morning reports was sitting between their plates. As they tucked into their eggs, Emhyr opened it and began skim reading, setting each document into one of two piles. Geralt knew one was for reports that didn’t need his attention, the other was for one’s that needed a closer look. 

Half way through the box, Geralt watched Emhyr read through a report that clearly gave him pause. His face didn’t particularly change, but the small tightening around Emhyr’s mouth, the way his eyes moved fractionally slower then when he skim read, gave it away. 

“Could you do me a favour?” Emhyr asked, looking away from the report to gaze at Geralt. 

“Depends what it is,” Geralt shrugged, shoving another rasher of bacon into his mouth.

“Last night a noble travelling into the city ahead of the Saovine celebrations reported seeing cult activity about an hour's ride west of the city in the Graupian bogland, at the stone circle. I don’t want to panic anyone by sending a unit of the city guard and the knights are about as subtle as well, knights. Will you ride out and investigate?”

“Why is it even a cause for concern in the first place?”

“Supposedly an entity is trapped there,” he answered, tone careful.

“You don’t usually put stock in supposedlies,” Geralt said, knocking their knees together under the table.

“I have vague memories of reading about it when I was a child. However I can’t for the life of me remember the name of the book or even what part of the library I found it.”

“Never read fiction books, even back then, huh?”

“Will you go?” he asked, ignoring Geralt’s joking barb. “You should be able to make it back before this afternoon’s eclipse.”

“If it’ll make things easier on you today, then yes I’ll go,” Geralt nodded. Emhyr reached out and squeezed his hand in thanks before going back to the reports.

-oOo-

Geralt stepped into Emhyr’s office wearing full armour, his own, not the Nilfgaardian armour Emhyr was constantly trying to get him to wear. The guards no longer stopped him or even announced him, they just opened the doors and let him through. Emhyr was penning a letter, hand flying over the parchment. He had yet to change into the ceremonial garb he’d be expected to wear for the afternoon’s festival in Solar Square. Geralt did not envy Mererid’s job of getting Emhyr to places on time.

Stopping in front of the desk, Geralt said, “I’m off, then.”

The hand stopped and Emhyr looked up. “Be safe,” he murmured, mind clearly on other matters. 

“Eyes right, gents,” Geralt smirked. Sure enough the inobtrusive guards and servants lining the walls to protect Emhyr and provide for his every whim, turned their eyes away. Geralt had heard the whispers, they liked him and the laughter that had returned to the palace since he’d arrived. 

Smirking in the face of Emhyr’s eye roll, Geralt leaned down over the desk, gently taking hold of Emhyr’s face and pressing a sweet kiss to his lips. “I’ll see you later,” he murmured, kissing him one last time before turning and striding from the room. 

“Don’t be late!” Emhyr called after him. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it!”

-oOo-

Geralt was going to be late.

He swung his silver sword with precision, defending himself against _another_ wraith. His journey to the Graupian bogland has been uneventful. However as soon as he’d turned Roach onto the sparse, brown grassed, puddle filled land, wraiths had been appearing at every step. He’d left Roach behind, ground tied and hopefully safe, before proceeding to fight his way to the area that the cult had been seen. 

The sun had reached and passed its zenith, the eclipse would soon be upon them, Emhyr would be parading through the streets without him. Even if Geralt could leave, he wouldn’t make it back to the city in time. But no witcher in good conscience could leave so many wraiths on the loose, free to harm any unsuspecting passerby. 

As Geralt steadily worked his way towards the stone circle, more wraiths appeared, further hindering his progress. Geralt found himself fighting two or three at once, something that usually wouldn’t be much of a stretch but having already been fighting for over an hour, even with potions the exertion was starting to wear on him. 

The sky began to darken as the moon covered the sun, first contact making the wraith’s attacks become more frenzied. In the distance he could see the stone circle atop a small hillock, tiny figures dressed in black appeared to be dancing between the tall stones, weaving in and out, backwards and forwards. Over the sounds of the wraith's shrieks, blown to him on the wind, Geralt could hear chanting. The words were not a language he recognised but it appeared to be timed with their movements, the tempo steadily increasing. 

As the eclipse reached its totality the ground below Geralt’s feet began to shake, rumbling low and sinister. His medallion twitched wildly against his chest. The wraiths stopped attacking, turning towards the stone circle. In the dim light, Geralt could see that the cult members had stopped moving, their chant reaching a fevered peak, the cry sounding like a beseechment before they all fell to the ground. The wraiths disappeared as if they’d never been there to start with. It was unsettling, a cold tendril of uncertainty wrapped its way around Geralt’s stomach. 

The shaking intensified and Geralt had to work to keep his balance as the rumbling grew so loud it hurt his ears, the scent of ozone filling his nose, so strong Geralt gagged. He sheathed his sword and fell to his knees, the overload on those two senses too much to bear, and started to crawl away from the stone circle, hoping the distance would help.

The ground felt oddly warm beneath his knees and gauntlets. Sweat dripped down Geralt’s forehead and back. His arms ached something terrible, they shook as Geralt forced himself further away, teeth gritted against the pain and nausea. Thoughts of knocking back a potion crossed his mind but Geralt wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep it down. 

With one last violent jerk that sent Geralt sprawling onto his back, legs landing in one of the puddles that littered the bogland, the ground stopped shaking and the rumbling finally stopped. Geralt stared up at the still dark sky, panting and confused, very sure the eclipse should have moved from totality into its fourth phase. 

His medallion twitched so hard it hit him in the face. A breath later, Geralt was hit with a wall of magic so strong he passed out.

-oOo-

Geralt came too with a gasp. Soaked up to the waist, his entire body aching, he stared at the still dark sky and wished he knew how long he’d been out. The magic that had filled the air was gone, his nausea along with it.

Sitting up he turned towards the stone circle, still sitting innocuously atop the small hillock. Knowing what he must do, Geralt heaved a sigh and pulled himself to his feet. Unsheathing his silver sword against anything that might burst from the darkness, Geralt started towards the circle. 

It was far faster going then before the eclipse. The wraiths were gone, all was quiet. In fact, it was so eerily quiet, Geralt thought the rumbling had damaged his ears. But upon saying a few words aloud he realised his hearing was fine and that the quiet came from the lack of all other noise. The usual background noise that Geralt filtered out to remain sane had disappeared. The wind had died, no birds sang, no insects chirped, nothing moved through the grass or flew overhead. It was unnerving. 

At one point Geralt looked back the way he’d come and wondered if he’d made the right choice. Emhyr was back there and dealing with whatever had happened, with the chaos that had surely erupted, alone. Geralt almost turned back, sentiment outweighing logic for a brief moment before he realised he’d be more help pressing forward and finding out what the fuck had happened in the stone circle. 

At the base of the hillock his medallion twitched, magic left over from whatever had happened when the eclipse reached its totality. The higher he climbed the stronger it became, once again making his stomach heave. Almost at the top, Geralt stopped and vomited. His breakfast long since digested, he brought up nothing but bile, it burned his throat and brought tears to his eyes. Once Geralt had brought his breathing back under control he continued forward.

The stones towered above him, three times his height and black in the semi-darkness. Larger stones sat at the four compass points and an even taller stone stood in the centre of the circle. Littering the ground around the stones were bodies. All were men, all wore black, all had the same tattoo of a rune Geralt didn’t recognise in the middle of their foreheads, none had even a trace of a heartbeat. 

Geralt sheathed his sword and walked around the circle, weaving in and out of the stones and the bodies, searching for anything that may help. But the stones bore no markings and the corpses carried no notes or weapons. 

The last stone to check was that which marked the centre of the circle. Geralt approached it warily, the magic in the air increasing with every step closer, making his stomach heave and his medallion twitch. His ears began to ring and blotches appeared in the corners of his vision but still Geralt pressed forward. By the time he reached the stone he was panting. 

Squinting, Geralt walked around it’s base, looking for any marks or engravings that might help him understand what was happening. “You really got nothing,” he complained, reaching out a hand for balance against the nausea. 

As soon as his hand touched the stone, Geralt’s vision whited out, the ringing in his ears crescendoing until it was all he could hear, the smell of ozone filled his lungs until he choked. He tried desperately to pull his hand away from the stone but he couldn’t, he couldn’t even pull his hand from his gauntlet. Even his Aard would not push him free from it’s terrible, unseen grip. 

Geralt groped for his trophy knife, hoping he could cut himself free when a voice whispered in his ear, audible over the ringing.

“We find you capable.”

“Who’s there?!” He shouted, twisting around. 

The ringing in Geralt’s ears died away, his sight returned but the magic in the air thickened and trembled around him. He vomited again, bile landing over his already sopping boots. During the next heave of his stomach the magic in the air all but disappeared and unable to help it, Geralt pitched forward onto the stone in relief, body sagging against it. 

“We are the guardians,” a different voice said, from his right side. It sounded simultaneously close by and far away, seemed to come from everywhere around him and only in Geralt’s head. It sounded like a landslide slipping down a mountain, a wave crashing on the beach, a tree crashing to the ground against the forest floor and also like an old man’s, thin and wavering. 

Geralt tried to turn but found he could not move at all and began to struggle. 

“No,” a third voice, from his left, “you’ll go mad if you look upon us and it’s a waste of energy to try and escape.”

“Who are you?” He asked again. 

“We are the guardians,” the first voice repeated, from somewhere in front of him, on the other side of the central stone.

“That’s not as explanatory as you think it is.”

A sigh that sounded like the wind blowing through autumn leaves and another voice began, “We are elemental sages that trapped this being here over a thousand years ago. Wat-”

“We don’t have time for this,” the elemental to his right interrupted before hurriedly explaining. “A being of terrible power has been released, it’s called the Un Tywyll. It will already have reached Nilfgaard by now to wreak whatever chaos and destruction it feels like. You must stop it.”

“How?”

“It requires a host but it is so dark, so twisted, it cannot survive for long inside those who know love. We see the family, friends and lover that surrounds you, see the strength of all you feel.”

“I- How-” he sputtered. 

“It’s an old being bound by old rules,” it continued as if Geralt hadn’t spoken. “It can take any as a host, will jump from person to person until it can find someone fitting _but_ it can not deny someone who is willing and it can not leave a willing host unless given permission. Beseech it, hold it within you and burn it with the love you feel in your heart.” 

“Why couldn’t _you_ just do that?” He griped, considering the task ahead of him. The knot in his stomach for Emhyr thankfully tempered by the fact that he was safe. Emhyr loved his country, his people and Ciri fiercely, the being, whatever it was, would not choose him. 

“It fights back, none of us were strong enough. Many died in the attempt but you are far stronger than we ever were.”

“How’d you know I won’t run?”

“Because you are a good man. This is not the first time you have faced such dire circumstances.”

“Yeah well, I’m hoping it’ll be the last. This was supposed to be my retirement,” he grumbled. “Why should I believe you?”

“Because you know it’s true, within you.” 

The words had indeed struck a chord within Geralt, he believed them, despite how quickly everything was happening. 

“Go now, time is of the essence,” the voice trailed off, disappearing into nothingness.

Whatever had been holding Geralt to the central stone dissipated and he stumbled backwards and away. The magic that had pervaded the air was also lessening. Turning frantically on the spot he searched, looking for any sign of the entities that had just spoken to him. However, the corpses were his only company and he didn’t dare touch any of the stones. With nothing else to do, Geralt took off at a run, dodging puddles and patches of soft ground, trying to take the straightest path back to Roach. It felt strange leaving the bodies unburned, but he would have to come back. Whatever the _thing_ was he was about to face, it was far more immediate and dangerous foe then whatever the dead may attract.

-oOo-

He’d pushed Roach to her limit on the way back to the city. The guard had changed since he’d left that morning but thankfully they recognised him from the times he’d accompanied Emhyr on their monthly inspections. He had to slow down to a trot but they let him through with a quick wave of a hand.

The outskirts of the city were quiet, it’s inhabitants having travelled into the centre for the festival before the more traditional celebrations began at sunset. Ahead, through the half gloom, Geralt could see plumes of smoke towering above the city. There were no wooden buildings within the city walls, to prevent great fires but still, Nilfgaard appeared to be burning. 

Half a mile from Solar Square, people began to pass Geralt, going in the opposite direction, heads bowed and face stricken. A few people became ten, then a hundred and Geralt found himself slowing Roach to a walk so as not to trample anyone, shouting to make people move out of his way.

Screaming up ahead wrent the air and the masses around him started trying to flee, hysteria slamming through them like a wave. Around Geralt people started pushing and shoving at each other, trying to get as far away as possible from the thing Geralt was trying to reach. The urge to stop and help seized him many times, the elderly man who’d fallen, a child who’d lost it’s mother, but he forced himself forwards. 

Smoke began to cloud his vision as he reached the Square. The bonfire meant for the evening had been lit, and many of the houses lining the square had flames streaming from their windows. Geralt’s ears throbbed and his nose ached from the sounds and scents.. 

Through the gloom, underneath the obelisk that marked the center of the square, a woman stood, grinning at the terrified population. Underneath him Roach tried to turn back, tossing her head and braying loud and scared. Geralt cast a calming Axii and pushed her forward through the throng of people, trying to get into hearing range. Magic pervaded the air, but this time it felt heavy, malignant against Geralt’s skin. 

A squadron of guards surrounded the host. It flicked it’s hand lazily in their direction, it’s grin sharpening and eyes flashing. Each guard's heads exploded in a sickening gush of blood, the dark red painting the pavement around the obelisk. 

As Geralt drew closer he could see other bodies littering the ground around the being’s feet. More guards but also ordinary citizens, men and women who had only ever wanted to live in peace. 

“Un Tywyll!” He bellowed but he wasn’t close enough, his voice getting lost in the pandemonium. With a snarl he continued to push Roach forward. The square was beginning the clear and the going got a little faster. 

Within throwing distance the Un Tywyll noticed him, turned a curiously predatory gaze on him. It made Geralt’s skin crawl, like spiders were scuttling under his armour, like maggots were filling his mouth and flies were buzzing round in his stomach. Geralt threw himself from Roach’s back, rolled and came back up to his feet, the disgusting feelings of abating. 

He ran as fast as he could, dodging in and out of the remaining people and coming to stop in front of the Un Tywyll. The host it had taken was young, Geralt would have been surprised if she’d been in her twenties. Her dress and braided hairstyle spoke of medium wealth, a merchant's daughter perhaps, or a lower noble. He did not know the normal colour of her eyes but now they held no colour at all, the iris gone, turned white, leaving only her pupil behind. 

The disgusting feeling overtook his body again as it’s gaze landed on him, and Geralt had to force the words past his convulsing throat. “Un Tywyll,” he quickly choked out, wanting to trap it before it realised what he was doing. “I beseech you for I am willing,” he continued, words that weren’t his own falling from his lips. “Use my body as your own.”

It twisted the face of the woman it was inhabiting, letting loose a feral shriek that cracked the ground around her feet. Liquid darkness leaked from her eyes, ears, nose and mouth, spilling into the air and coalescing into one form. It pulsated sickly as it floated towards him, appearing to fight against the rules that bound it, reaching out to those near it who’d stopped in abject terror and could only stare. But it could touch none of them. 

It came closer, filling Geralt’s vision. In it he could see his worst fears and deepest regrets. His breath came faster as he remembered what the elementals had said, casting his mind to thoughts of Ciri, Emhyr, Dandelion, Yennefer, Regis, Eskel, Lambert and Vesemir, letting his love for them fill him to the brim. He thought of his favourite memories, the time Ciri had accidentally called him Dad when she was fourteen, laughing with Eskel and Lambert, Vesemir telling him he was proud of him, Yen’s eyes, Regis’ smile and Emhyr in the mornings, after they wake but before they get out of bed, soft and pliant and breathtakingly lovely. 

The Un Tywyll touched his face, pressed against his skin, cold and clammy. For a moment Geralt couldn’t breath as it slipped in through his mouth and nose, freezing his insides. He felt it stretch out inside of him, claws piercing into his brain and making him cry out. By the tips of his fingers he clung to the memories and the feelings they invoked. The being started to thrash, trying to free itself and Geralt dropped to his knees, willing it to stay inside of him. His body temperature began to rise, heart speeding up as the cold dissipated, giving way to a fiery heat that coursed through his veins and threatened to consume him. 

Geralt threw back his head and they both screamed, the sound of his voice mingled with something deeper, something thunderous. 

Together, they burned.

-oOo-

Geralt stood in front of Emhyr’s desk, the one he’d used in Vizima. In fact, they were without doubt in his Vizima office. Emhyr’s face was hard, giving nothing away as Geralt explained, “She went through a portal to destroy the White Frost but she didn’t come back. I’m sorry.”

Something flickered behind Emhyr’s eyes but it was there and gone before Geralt could name it. “You’re sorry,” Emhyr sneered, the gentle calm of his tone giving away how infuriated he really was. “I should never have trusted an aberration with such an important task. You have failed Cirilla. No longer can you claim to love her, Witcher, for you effectively killed her. I should have you beheaded but I think letting you live with the consequences of your actions to be a far more fitting punishment.”

“Emhyr,” Geralt breathed. The words cut him like a knife to the chest. He loved Emhyr and he was sure Emhyr felt something in return but the words coming out of his mouth made it sound like they were nothing to each other. 

It was all wrong. Geralt knew no such exchange had taken place but it felt so real. He didn’t understand.

“However,” Emhyr continued, “if I ever lay eyes on you again I will not hesitate to have you hanged. Understood?” 

“Perfectly,” Geralt said, eyeing Emhyr warily, searching for any sign of the man he knew lurking behind the Emperor's guise, but he could find no such man. 

Emhyr sat at his desk and turned his attention to an already open ledger. Geralt wanted to grab him, shake him and ask what was wrong, why he was acting in such a way. Instead, he turned on his head and left the office, left the palace on horseback, despondent and heart broken. 

Ciri was dead? But she couldn’t be, he’d seen her at dinner the previous night, hadn’t he? 

The streets of Vizima gave way to open countryside and before he knew it, Geralt found himself in Velen, riding through Crookback Bog. The crones house still stood, rising from the water, shadowed and insidious. He could detect no heartbeats yet still, when he dismounted the last of the crones limped from inside. 

Weavess leered at him, Vesemir’s medallion hanging around her neck. Before she had the chance to utter even a syllable he attacked. Rage and confusion marrying together until Geralt couldn’t tell which was which. 

It was a hard fight, a long fight, but body aching, he prevailed, piercing her through the vile patch of holes where her right eye should have been. He snatched the medallion from around her neck and tucked it safely away in one of his belt pouches. Geralt was about to sheath his sword when a low growl sounded behind him. Sword already swinging, Geralt turned and cut down the wolf just as it was about to reach him. It went down with a whimper. 

Geralt was not given a chance to rest as another took its place, it’s entire pack joining in the fray. Out of the bog, drowners, ghouls and nekkers appeared, their putrid smell warning Geralt of their presence while his eyes focused on the wolves. 

There were so many of them, but still Geralt fought, using everything he’d ever learnt while at Kaer Morhen and during his eighty years on the path. A drowner’s claws shredded his side and Geralt kept going. A nekker bit his thigh and Geralt kept going. A ghoul swiped him the side, the crack of his ribs loud above the necrophages and still, Geralt kept going.

He wanted to stop. Ciri was dead, Emhyr didn’t want him. It would be so easy to just stop, drop his sword and let himself be taken. No witcher died in their bed after all. But he couldn’t. Geralt tried, over and over again but he could not open his hand. Snarling in frustration, Geralt punched a drowner so hard his knuckles burst. 

“ _I’ll let you stop_ ,” a voice whispered in his mind, deep and high, whispered and screamed all at once. Like nails on a chalkboard it sent a shiver down Geralt’s spine, made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. “ _If you set me free._ ”

Awareness slammed through Geralt. The stone circle, the elementals, the Un Tywyll in Solar Square. “Never,” he growled. Energy renewed, he struck down another nekker and let his mind settle on Ciri. 

He thought of the familiar way she hugged him good night and laughed at his stupid jokes, the way he’d do anything to make her smile and cross the world to keep her safe. Remembered the way his heart swelled with pride the first time she beat him running the walls, how at home he feels when he sits down for dinner with Ciri and Emhyr, how lucky. 

He clung to those memories, those feelings and burned once more.

-oOo-

Geralt sat across from Regis amongst the gravestones of the Mere-Lachaiselongue Cemetery, the Sansretour River reflected the stars and a warm breeze blew at Geralt’s hair. He gratefully took the bottle of mandrake cordial when Regis passed it over. Despite being weaker than what Regis would usually distill, it was still strong enough to knock out a small horse. As Geralt wasn’t a small horse, it left him pleasantly buzzed.

“It’s your fault, Geralt,” Regis said, tone perfectly placid, face calm. 

Geralt's heart skipped a beat. “What?”

“Dettlaff is dead and it’s your fault. You made me kill him.”

“No I didn’t,” Geralt frowned, at a loss and feeling wrong footed. 

“Sound logic dictates that it is all your fault,” Regis continued. “You bought that blasted ribbon and now my brother is dead by my own hand. I understand why Dettlaff cut his off now.”

That wasn’t what had happened at all. He hadn’t bought the ribbon, and when the time came he let Dettlaff go. Owing Dettlaff Regis’ life had made it impossible for Geralt to draw his sword against the vampire. He stared at Regis, utterly perplexed.

“Regis, forgive me please,” he said, unsure what else to say, just wanting Regis to stop. Geralt tried to stand, to go and sit beside his friend but he found himself glued on the spot. 

“No, Geralt, I don’t think I will.”

“I didn’t buy the ribbon, Regis,” Geralt beseeched, heart hammering in his chest. He was sure he hadn’t bought the ribbon. 

“Yes, you did. You failed Vesemir, you failed Ciri, you failed Emhyr, you failed Dettlaff and you failed me.” 

The words cut Geralt like a knife, he tried to get up again but couldn’t. Instead he asked, “Why are you doing this?”

“Because you deserve it,” Regis grinned, showing his pointed teeth. There was a pause before Regis said, grinning even wider, “But I will cease the onslaught, my friend, if you set me free.”

“Free you?” Geralt asked. His thoughts crawled through something thick and viscous, trying to remember. There was something important that would explain why Regis was saying such horrible things but the answer slipped through his fingers like smoke. 

“Free me from suffering having such an inadequate friend by taking your knife and slitting your throat.”

“Why would I do that?” Geralt wondered, reaching for his knife anyway. The handle felt strange in his grip, wrong. He didn’t want to do as Regis bid but his hand was moving of its own accord. Withdrawing the knife and lifting it towards his throat. Why was he doing such a thing?

“NO!” He bellowed. Clarity slapping him in the face, allowing him to throw the knife away and finally stand, breathing hard. 

“Release me!” Regis shouted, surging to his feet, the Un Tywyll twisting Regis’ face in an expression Geralt had never seen before. 

“Never,” Geralt snarled. “I will never release you. The man who’s form you’ve taken is one of my greatest friends. He’s extraordinarily kind, he can make me laugh even when I feel horrendous-”

“Shut up!”

“When I thought he’d died,” Geralt continued, the heat he associated with destroying the Un Tywyll building in his chest. “I thought a part of myself had died with him. When I found out he was _alive_ , I knew I’d been given a boon greater than any djinn could grant or sorceress could conjure. I love him an-”

But Geralt could not continue, he could only burn and remember how he felt when Regis appeared in that Beauclair warehouse.

-oOo-

Geralt blinked and found himself sitting next to Vesemir in Kaer Morhen’s Grand Hall. A fire crackled merrily in the grate and rain lashed itself against the windows.

“How can you say you love Ciri, when you lost her,” Vesemir frowned, stroking his moustache. 

Something niggled at the back of Geralt’s mind but he couldn’t pin the thought down. Looking at Vesemir made his heart ache, though he didn’t understand why. 

“What do you mean?” Geralt asked, a frown tugging at his own features. 

“Well it’s like this, Wolf. If you were a good father, you wouldn’t have lost her. Plain and simple.” Vesemir picked up a tankard and drank deeply from it. 

Geralt couldn’t respond, could only stare at his mentor, the pain in his chest growing as the niggle became an itch. 

“You were supposed to be the greatest of all of us but instead you turned out to be such a disappointment,” Vesemir sighed, placing his tankard back on the table with a dull thunk.

An apology formed in his throat, Geralt took breath to voice it when the itch throbbed and everything became clear. Geralt didn’t speak, instead he allowed himself to succumb to the grief he still felt when he thought of Vesemir, just as fresh as it had been after the battle that took him from them. 

The Un Tywyll, hiding as Vesemir, flinched back and away from Geralt. There was no gradual build, Geralt was on fire between one breath and the next.

-oOo-

Geralt was sitting next to Dandelion, his friend was in bed, propped up on pillows and scribbling furiously in a notebook. Sun streamed in through the windows, Geralt could hear birds chirping outside and the sounds of many women. He wondered idly when Nenneke would show up to tell him off about something that was only tangentially linked to him. Considering the headache that was pounding behind his eyes, Geralt hoped she wouldn’t be long so he could ask her for some yarrow extract.

Dandelion turned the notebook around and Geralt frowned as he read, ‘ _This is all your fault! I’ll never sing or even speak again because of you and that cursed Djinn!_ ’ 

The headache peaked and Geralt groaned aloud at it’s intensity, squeezing his eyes closed. When he opened them again he stared at the Un Tywyll, masquerading a Dandelion, eyes boring into the periwinkle blue. 

“Dandelion never permanently lost his voice,” Geralt said, time calm and matter of fact. 

The expression on Dandelion’s face changed from one of distress to annoyance, huffing as he crossed his arms. 

“He’s been a thorn in my side since he was barely a man,” Geralt said, recalling the first time he waltzed up to Geralt, youthful and charmingly naive. “But he’s my best friend. Loyal to a fault, funny, he’s always accepted me and has never been afraid to call me out on my shit.”

The heat Geralt now associated with the Un Tywyll began to build in his belly. The Un Tywyll itself was staring at Geralt in horror, trying to speak but unable too. Geralt didn’t know what it had done to lose control of the vision but he pressed on regardless. 

“I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve saved him, from others and himself. I’d do it again in a heartbeat because I’ve also lost count of the times he’s cheered me up after a bad day.” 

The Un Tywyll reached out and took Geralt's trophy knife from his bandolier. Geralt was ready to defend himself, it wouldn’t be hard, Dandelion was hardly a paragon of fighting skill. Instead the Un Tywyll held the knife to Dandelion’s heart, raising his eyebrows at Geralt. The heat inside of him was starting to reach unbearable levels. 

“Go ahead,” Geralt grinned. “You’re not him. This is all happening in my head. My Dandelion is alive and well in Novigrad. In fact, when all of this is over I think I’ll go and pay him a visit, tell him just how much he means to me while I’m there.”

The Un Tywyll threw the knife away with a scowl. Geralt threw his head back and laughed before submitting to the inescapable burning.

-oOo-

Geralt knew the Un Tywyll was weak because when he next became aware of himself, he also remembered everything.

He found himself in bed, Emhyr was laid on his chest, eyes closed. The autumn evening sun was visible through the open balcony doors and a mild breeze blew through, smelling of the palace gardens. The warm autumn days still took him by surprise, he marvelled at the way they could lay atop the duvet rather than needing to be huddled underneath. 

It was another memory, rather than something new. That afternoon had been the first time Emhyr had allowed Geralt to take him, rather than the other way around. The experience had been stunning, and afterwards as Geralt had held Emhyr in his arms, stroking a gentle hand through his soft black hair, Geralt had realised he was in love with him. 

The fact that the Un Tywyll had brought him to that moment, set on tainting the memory made Geralt feel sick. It had been a scary realisation but still remarkable, still something he treasured and liked to think about. Enjoying the way it made his stomach somersault and heart skipped a beat, breath catching as he remembered the soft edges of their love making and the understanding that followed it. 

Geralt refused to allow it to be changed. All of it was happening in _his_ head, the Un Tywyll was clearly losing and he was determined to use that to his advantage. Concentrating, the scene began to change. The room and the bed grew smaller, the air colder. Above him, the Un Tywyll, wearing Emhyr’s face, opened his lover's eyes and scowled at Geralt. A fireplace rose up from the center of the floor, a bathtub appeared in the corner. 

Emhyr straddled him, Geralt wanted to push him off but as his bedroom at Kaer Morhen settled around them, once again found he couldn’t move his body. 

“I’m in love with the man whose face you’ve stolen,” he snapped. “He’s a difficult man, but I wouldn’t have him any other way.”

“No,” the Un Tywyll groaned, hands coming down on Geralt’s neck, squeezing. 

“I’ve never loved someone so much in my life,” Geralt continued, voice strained against the pressure on his windpipe. “I didn’t know I was even capable of feeling so much romantic love for one person.” 

“Release me!”

“Never.” 

Black spots appeared at the corners of his vision as heat once again began to build inside of him. Geralt wanted to keep talking but there was no air left in his lungs to form words. Instead, Geralt thought of some of the quieter moments he and Emhyr had shared over the course of their relationship. 

Evenings spent in front of the fire, reading, playing Gwent or chess. Bathing together, washing Emhyr’s hair and having his washed in return. What it felt like holding Emhyr in his arms, how safe he felt when Emhyr held him. The way his heart skipped a beat when Emhyr smiled or he laughed at one of Geralt’s truly appalling jokes. 

Above him, the being was panting, and appeared blurry around the edges. 

Geralt thought of Ciri too. Thought of family dinners together. Dancing with first her and then Emhyr at the autumn equinox ball. Sunny afternoon rides out of the city, just the three of them on one of Emhyr’s rare afternoons off. Laughing and joking together. After a few too many bottles of wine, seeking Ciri out, arm wrapped around Emhyr’s waist so they could both tell her that they loved her. The way his heart had felt full to bursting the time she’d stumbled into their room, drunk, and flopped down between them, mumbling, “Night father, night dad,” before beginning to snore. 

“You won’t destroy me,” the Un Tywyll cried, but the voice was wrong. It no longer sounded like Emhyr, or larger than life, the way it had during the first vision with the crone. Reedy and weak was the only way Geralt could describe it, fearful. 

Geralt thought of every person he’d ever loved and clung to the image of them. As his vision began to fade he thought of all the good times he’d spent with each of them. The being screamed and Geralt joined it as they both burned. Geralt vowed that if he survived he would tell Emhyr how he felt.

-oOo-

Blinking awake, Geralt once again found himself in bed and staring up at the ceiling of his and Emhyr’s room. It was dark outside, truly dark, not the strange half light that had pervaded the sky during the eclipse. The room was lit by candles and a fire roared in the hearth. His armour had been removed and he’d been dressed in his favourite pair of pyjamas. He was quite sure it was over, nothing nudged at the back of his mind, he was able to freely move his limbs under the duvet although they ached something terrible. Still, he remained wary, in case the being had decided on a new avenue of offence.

Emhyr sat next to him, propped up by pillows, chin to chest and snoring lightly. Even in sleep he was frowning, and locks of hair that were usually pushed back, framed his face. With a jolt, Geralt realised Emhyr was wearing one of his sleep shirts. Geralt gazed up at him for a while, heart aching over the fact the first time he professed his feelings to Emhyr, it wasn’t actually to Emhyr at all. 

With a quiet sigh, Emhyr’s eyes opened, immediately searching Geralt out. Upon seeing him awake the frown lessened. He reached out a hand towards Geralt’s face and before Geralt knew what was happening he’d flinched back. It had all been in his head but he still remembered the feeling of Emhyr’s hands around his neck. 

Hurt flashed over Emhyr’s face before he schooled his features into quiet concern, pulling his hand away. Before he could let it rest back in his lap, Geralt unearthed an arm from underneath the covers and took hold of Emhyr’s wrist. He pressed a kiss to Emhyr’s palm and then placed the hand on the top of his own head, pushing into it until Emhyr began scratching at his scalp. 

“How are you feeling?” He asked. 

“Like I’ve been hit by a speeding carriage,” Geralt answered. “I’m not complaining, but was it really a good idea to be alone when I woke? What if the Un Tywyll had won and tried to hurt you?”

“There was never any risk,” Emhyr tutted. “The mages monitored you closely and were quite sure when the, what was it you called it? The Un Tywyll, was permanently gone. I wasn’t allowed anywhere near you until they’d given the all clear.”

“Well,” Geralt sighed, “good.” 

“Will you tell me what happened?”

“In a bit,” he said, a wave of exhaustion crashing through him. After yawning so wide his jaw cracked, Geralt asked, “Can I hold you?”

In answer Emhyr climbed under the covers and shuffled down until he could lay his head on the pillow, looking at Geralt with an eyebrow raised expectantly. Reaching out, Geralt turned onto his side and pulled Emhyr towards him, until they were chest to chest, legs tangled together, Emhyr’s head tucked under Geralt’s chin. Pushing his nose into Emhyr’s hair, Geralt took a deep breath, enjoying the scent of ink, parchment and lavender. 

A piece Geralt hadn’t known was missing, slotted back into place and sleep quickly swept him away.

-oOo-

The next time Geralt awoke, they were still chest to chest and Emhyr was already awake, gazing at him and stroking a gentle finger along the line of his jaw. Most of the candles had guttered out and the fire was burning low. A shadow of stubble graced Emhyr’s cheeks and bags had formed under his eyes.

“Did you sleep at all?” Geralt asked, voice scratchy. 

“I dozed for a while,” Emhyr admitted, “but considering I almost lost you, I found myself not wanting to look away from you for long.” 

“Emhyr,” he breathed, heart fluttering at the words. Cupping Emhyr’s face, Geralt bridged the small gap between them and pressed a soft kiss to Emhyr’s lips. 

They continued trading tender kisses for a long while after that, until only the fire lit the room. Eventually Emhyr pulled away, panting slightly and rested his forehead against Geralt’s before asking, “My darling, what happened?” 

As always the endearment sent a little thrill through Geralt. 

After one more kiss Geralt explained it all. The wraiths, the elementals, the possession, what the Un Tywyll showed him, how it weakened under the memories of his friends and daughter. As he reached the end, Geralt hesitated, staring at Emhyr intently. 

“And?” Emhyr prompted, eye’s shining in the darkness. 

“It appeared as you again, tried to strangle me.”

“That’s why you flinched.”

Geralt nodded even though Emhyr hadn’t asked a question. He was going to tell Emhyr the truth, admit his feelings and the part they played in defeating the Un Tywyll but just in case his feelings weren’t returned, Geralt kissed him again. It wasn’t hard, but it wasn’t soft either. He threaded one hand into Emhyr’s hair and used the other to clutch at him, holding him as tightly as Geralt knew Emhyr could stand. Emhyr moaned into his mouth and kissed him back with just as fervently, sending a spike of pleasure coursing through Geralt’s veins. 

Pulling away, Geralt cupped the side of Emhyr’s face and stared intently into his eyes. “To defeat it,” he murmured, rubbing his thumb over Emhyr’s cheekbone, heart pounding in his chest. “I thought of you, all of the wonderful things we’ve shared together and with Ciri, of how you make me feel because...I’m in love with you, Emhyr.” 

Emhyr blinked at him a few times before his eyebrows tugged down into a frown and he asked, “Why?” 

Geralt's heart sank, stomach jolting painfully. Despite being under the duvet, he felt suddenly cold. Emhyr continued to stare at him, appearing genuinely confused. 

“I- You- I think I’ll just…” Geralt trailed off and sat up, throwing his legs over the side of the bed. The action made Geralt’s head spin, far weaker than he originally thought. Still Emhyr didn’t say anything, even as Geralt sat facing away from him. He’d thought Emhyr would at least be able to say he was fond of Geralt, or at least react positively in some way. Their romance was hardly new, it was still young but they’d certainly been together more than long enough for them to love each other. 

“I’ve hurt your feelings,” Emhyr mumbled. 

“It’s fine,” Geralt gritted out, blinking rapidly against the hot prick of tears. 

Emhyr didn’t reply. Listening, Geralt tracked Emhyr’s movements as he climbed out of bed and padded away on bare feet away. For a sickening moment Geralt thought Emhyr was going to _leave_ , but to Geralt’s relief, he only approached the writing desk in the corner of the room. 

Geralt turned his head and watched Emhyr rummage through the top draw. Extracting a leather bound notebook, he walked back over towards Geralt, flicking through the notebook, eyes quickly scanning the pages. He came to a stop right in front of Geralt, and Geralt longed to reach out and wrap his arms around Emhyr’s waist, to seek comfort from Emhyr even though he was the reason Geralt felt so awful in the first place. 

The notebook was shoved under his nose and Geralt took it automatically, eyes falling to the top of the page. It was written in Nilfgaardian, Emhyr’s looping handwriting incredibly familiar. Slowly, he began to translate the text, heart in his throat. 

_-never thought I would love another and considering my position I always thought it would be easier to stay away from such attachments. However, I find myself utterly infatuated without even having realised I’d fallen, as if I was the heroine in one of those trashy romance novels he likes to read._

_Yet I can not deny it. I love waking next to him every morning. I love breaking my fast with him and the way he always captures my calf between his ankles under the table. The worst part of my day is saying goodbye to him in the morning and the best is when I say hello to him in the evenings. I think I could write a sonnet about his smile._

_I have committed such heinous atrocities during my grabs for power, I don’t know how he can stand to be in the same room with me, never mind share my bed. He is so good, whereas I have my enemies buried underneath my ballroom. I have overcome adversity so terrible most could never even bear to imagine it, usurped a usurper, conquered the North but realising that I am in love with Geralt was more terrifying than all of my other experiences combined._

There was more but Geralt couldn’t make himself read any further, closing the journal, he placed it on the bedside cabinet. With shaking hands he reached out and gripped Emhyr’s waist, pulling him forward into the space between his legs and shoving his face into Emhyr’s stomach. He felt sick with relief, almost light headed with it, his heart beating a tattoo against his ribs. 

Gentle fingers carded through his hair. “Do you understand?”

“I do,” Geralt breathed, resting his chin on Emhyr’s stomach so he could look up at him. 

“I apologise for reacting so poorly.”

It was not lost on Geralt that he was possibly the only person Emhyr had apologised to in decades, that it meant Emhyr really did see him as an equal worthy of respect. “I forgive you.”

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Emhyr said, hands moving to frame Geralt’s face.

“Okay,” he nodded, stretching his neck so he could meet Emhyr’s lips just that little bit quicker. 

Emhyr _loved_ him, Geralt couldn’t get over it. His feelings were returned and it made him feel so light and warm inside. After months spent with Emhyr and Ciri, he hadn’t thought he could get any happier and yet, somehow, he had. After the day Geralt had, it didn’t bother him that Emhyr couldn’t yet say the words aloud because he knew that one day, hopefully soon, he would be able too, and that day would be more than worth the wait.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! I created this work for the Sordid Saovine Witcher Halloween Event :D
> 
> The title is the first line of [Darkness by Lord Byron](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43825/darkness-56d222aeeee1b), a wonderful poem for this glorious spooky day.
> 
> [My Tumblr!](https://lutes-and-dandelions.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Happy Halloween lovelies! <3


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